


Various Sherlock Smutfic from 2010

by macabrekawaii



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-25
Updated: 2012-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 12:42:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macabrekawaii/pseuds/macabrekawaii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are all my drabbles from 2010. I’m going through my google docs today. These are from the Kink meme and I no longer have most of the prompts. So I’ll just label them Drabble 1, 2 etc. There are 4 <strike>lights</strike> Drabbles</p>
            </blockquote>





	Various Sherlock Smutfic from 2010

Drabble 1:  
Sherlock Holmes had been at this case for weeks now, WEEKS, bloody disgraceful weeks trying to piece together how a baron’s wife had ended up both beheaded and yet somehow responsible for the murder of her lover. The case had floated nebulously in Holmes’ mind, taunting and teasing him with its inexplicablities when, all of a sudden, everything moved into crystal clarity. “Of course!” He shouted, triumphantly, a win against the war against mystery, darkness and London’s bleak underbelly. He should contact Lestrade immediately, he should march himself down to Scotland Yard and let everyone know, in great glorious detail, exactly how he, Sherlock Holmes, had solved the case, he should…. he eyed the locked box in the corner of his room.

….well, a little celebration first would do no harm, of course. That baroness was not getting any more beheaded. 

————-

A bit later and a lot brighter, Holmes loped his way to Watson’s study and rapped lightly at the door in a complete mockery of trying to get one’s attention before letting himself in. Watson was in a chair by the window, furiously scrawling something into one of his many books. Always with the writing, Holmes thought to himself, always this and that and what happened yesterday and how many footsteps did it take to get to the end of a case and how many times Holmes got punched in the face and Watson does look ever so dashing as he writes and, oh, yes—

Holmes moved so that he was in front of Watson and he leaned forward over the other man. His hands rested on the Watson’s hips and he stared down at him. His eyes were unfocused and glassy like a dog’s looking for something to chase, twin pools of absolute blackness into which Watson found himself inescapably pulled. He rose from his chair so that he now stood over Holmes and set his book aside. The detective reached up and slid down Watson’s braces, letting them fall to his sides, leaving him clad only in his undershirt and trousers. He looked up at Watson through heavy lidded eyes and fluttered them, languidly smiling like a coquettish girl. Or howevermuch a man of a certain age, hopped up on who knows what concoctions, can look like a coquettish girl. It was horrifying.

“Holmes, you are not in sorts, are you?” Watson snorted and pushed Holmes back a step to get a look at him, the thrall broken.

“I happen to be,” Holmes’ words came fast and spilled from his mouth like water from a broken dam, “quite in sorts my good man. The most sorts. The best of sorts.” 

Watson sighed. “And what have we put into ourselves today, old man?” He furrowed his brows and tried to sort things as Holmes moved close once more, his hands resting again on Watson’s hips. He drummed his fingers against the doctor’s thigh. 

“Stop fidgeting and let me take a look at you. Who knows what’s going on in that head of yours.”

“I think you know quite well what is going on in this head.” Holmes leaned in and ran his tongue across Watson’s lips. 

“You are not in sorts.”

“The best sort to be in.” Holmes nimbly began unfastening Watson’s belt.

“Sherlock….”

“John…” Hands moving faster, belt undone, Holmes started in on the buttons. He felt like the child with his hands in the cookie jar. Or were about to be. He bit his lip.

“I— I really most protest.” Watson stammered, though he made no move to stop the detective from continuing to unbutton his trousers. Holmes’ deft fingers slid down past Watson’s waistband and curled against the soft hairs he found there. Watson swallowed hard. 

“Really?” Holmes’ fingers found Watson’s cock and he smoothed a calloused thumb across his shaft. “Must you?” Holmes’ breath was hot against Watson’s throat as he dove forward, lapping at his jawline. He smelled of anisette and tobacco, opium and jasmine, laudanum and unwashed clothes . All the vices of the orient pooled together with whatever it was that made Sherlock Holmes, well. Sherlock.

“Well I suppose…” Watson trailed off as Holmes dropped to his knees, his hands sliding down his back as he moved. 

Slowly, achingly slowly, Holmes laved his tongue up Watson’s shaft and buried his face against his companion’s loins. He inhaled deeply and swooned back, his nostrils filled with the musky scent of Watson. His Watson. Holmes giggled maniacally. 

“Do you find something to your amusement down there, Sherlock?”

Holmes continued to laugh even as his hands gripped Watson’s cock, which, already half hard, sprung to life in the warmth of his hand. He stroked it lazily as he gazed up at Watson, entirely transfixed by the man standing before him. He felt floaty, disconnected. As if somehow his head was detached from his body and he was watching himself engage in such a scandalous engagement. It was brilliant. He felt brilliant. He was brilliant. 

Without a second thought, Holmes began to suck Watson’s cock with all the abandon in the world. And his world was sucking Watson’s cock. The doctor moaned loudly, thrusting his hips forward to meet Holmes’ enthusiastic actions. Holmes’ own erection throbbed in his trousers, writhed as he did, ached to be cared for. 

Holmes could feel the tension rising in himself, crashing through his veins like the waves of a manic ocean. He bobbed his head forward, greedily devouring Watson’s length as deftly as he could take it into his throat and mouth. Deeper, harder, and faster Holmes continued his efforts, practically gagging each time Watson slammed into him. His jaw ached and his throat burned from the ministrations and still he continued, ignoring all sensation but for the fullness in his mouth, the sour taste of Watson’s flesh against his tongue and the constant hum of his own internal tempest. His fingers clenched against the skin of Watson’s thighs and if the doctor knew welts would form he gave no notice nor care, only continued to thrust forward into Holmes’ open mouth. 

Homes sensed Watson growing close. His erection had become even more taught, the veins pronounced as he ran his tongue across. With every noisy suck and slurp Holmes felt the pulse of desire building in the other man. He made a move to engulf Watson, to take his entire length into his oral channels. He was wobbly and miscalculated, his teeth scraped against sensitive flesh. Holmes fuzzily chided himself for misjudging the distance between his teeth and Watson’s skin, such a simple foolish mistake, angles and depth conceived from such simple calculations anyway and really how could he mess this up, such a simple activity as placing one’s genitals into someone else’s mouth though he did suppose that it was all a little silly and messy and naughty and he wondered if the practice was illegal because of its impropriety or if it had somewhat more of a religious base and in any case he had thoroughly messed up his form and how could he ever get back on point now and—

Watson yelped and grabbed Holmes by the hair, fingers twisting hard against his scalp, nails digging against his skull, waking him from his internal reveries. Watson did not look pleased.

“Sorry, love.” Holmes grinned and ran his tongue across his teeth. Watson palmed at his hair and ran his fingers down his hairline to cup the back of Holmes’ head. At Watson’s touch, he leaned back on his haunches and felt the world around him drop away. He grabbed at his companion and began his labors with renewed vigor. 

All the while, Holmes could feel the friction building, the wild chaotic buzz of drugs and hysteria, sex and violence and action bubbling up inside of him. His dick was hard, painfully hard, and already droplets of semen spilled from its slick tip, still trapped between layers of fabric. His sensation of floating had abated, replaced now with a churning as if here were indeed on some ocean being rocked and pushed and pulled in a thousand directions at once. He felt as though he might break apart or explode or die or— 

Sherlock Holmes, the world’s most brilliant mind, had just come in his trousers. And with that sordid realization, Holmes swirled his tongue around the head of Watson’s cock and felt the rush of fulfillment coarse through the other man. Rivulets of semen poured into Holmes’ mouth hot and wet, salty and musky and all was bloody right with the world. 

Watson’s prick slipped out of Holmes’ slack jaws with a wet popping sound, sending a dribble of liquid down the kneeling man’s chin. Holmes looked utterly debauched there on the carpet, on his knees, a trickle of Watson’s come oozing from his lips like icing down a cake. 

Watson sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it down respectably. “Come on then.” He helped Holmes to his feet and looped an arm around his waist. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“You are too good to me, Mother Hen.” 

Drabble 2:

 

Watson awoke with a snort and a gulp, feeling the weight of the other man drop down onto his chest. Holmes was kneeling over him, legs spread across Watson’s torso, his erect penis held with relish mere inches from the doctor’s face.  
“Wakey wakey good doctor.” Holmes’ voice was sweet as the honey he took in his tea and he wiggled a bit as he spoke. “Time to greet the day, as it were.”  
“Get that out of my face Holmes, it is far too civilized an hour for this endeavor.” He yawned. 

“It’s not in your face, dear friend, it is in my hand.” Holmes leaned forward and pressed the already slick tip of the head of his prick against Watson’s rough, unshaved jaw, all the while stroking himself with some degree of enthusiasm.  
“Get what’s in your hand out of my face.” Watson spoke through clenched teeth, though already his own cock swelled beneath his bedclothes. The scent of Holmes’ musky arousal in such vicinity was indeed getting him hot, howevermuch he wished to protest. And he could not deny that the detective’s method of rousing him from sleep was at the least…. interesting. 

Holmes continued to stroke himself languidly as he spoke. “It’s been my understanding that waking you under more usual circumstances has proven ah—” he paused, a rivulet of pleasure creeping up his spine. He grasped at the base of his erection to stave off, for now, the inevitable. “Ahem. Has proven difficult of late.”

Watson smirked. “Well perhaps if one was not kept up at all hours, he would be easier to wake come morning.” His eyes remained transfixed on Holmes’ ministrations, the curve of his fingers over his slick manhood, the way they slid luxuriously across the soft skin. Were he not currently pinned down by Holmes’ legs, Watson debated throwing the detective off himself and simply having his way with the morning intruder.  
“Now don’t… be silly Watson, I… awake p-perfectly… well come mmm-morning.” Homles’ voice became a rich staccato of gasps as come he did, all over Watson’s face. 

Watson scowled.

“I do say you look quite ehm, ravashing, sullied in this manner.” Holmes leaned back on his haunches and took in the sight of his efforts dripping down Watson’s furrowed brow.  
Watson smiled and calmly proceeded to punch his dear companion in the face. Holmes fell backwards onto the bed, cupping the side of his jaw, his voice now hoarse and mumbled.

“Good morning to you too Watson.”

Drabble 3:

“Sherlock,” Watson spoke softly against Holmes’ cheek as he rutted up against him, their erections pressing against one another, one arm slung behind the detective’s back, the other reaching down between his legs. “I want to try something… different.” His voice was smooth as silk and Holmes sighed contentedly as Watson scissored the fingers already inside of him, slicked with oil. 

“Hmmm what is it?” Holmes spoke as if far off in a dream, he squirmed slightly. 

Watson slid two more slick fingers into Holmes and the detective groaned and rolled back his eyes at the feeling of being so filled. “Is this alright?” He moved so that he was now between Holmes’ legs. 

“Yes.” Holmes reply was even further detached. He threw his head back and let loose a low moan. Watson twisted his hand to align his fist, his thumb pressing against yet not quite entering Holmes’ body. 

“Trust me,” Watson’s voice was breathy against Holmes’ ear, “I’m a doctor.” And with that, Watson slid his whole fist into Holmes’ body and watched as he was eagerly swallowed to the wrist. Slowly, languidly, he turned his knuckles upwards, pressing against Holmes’ inner channel. He moved in time to Holmes’ writhings, meeting his body with every thrust and twist. Holmes shook and bared his teeth, his eyes locked on Watson’s. 

“Ahh. I…” Holmes hissed his words, unable to form even the basest of sentences. He lay splayed wanton on the bed, taking all of what Watson had to give. Watson smiled and moved his free hand to encircle Holmes’ prick, now purple and taught and seeking release. Holmes’ arousal burbled in his throat, eking out something between a wail and a coo. He was lost in the sensations of being so filled by Watson, so lovingly handled, so delicately and intimately probed and touched. Watson began stroking him with the same sensuous movements he used to fuck Holmes with his hand. He spend up his ministrations, plunging into the detective, his hand sliding wetly in and out of Holmes’ willing body and all the while stroking his throbbing cock. Watson could feel Holmes’ arousal building, could see the muscles of Holmes’ abdomen and thighs pulling tight and tense. With a quick stroke, he brought Holmes to completion. Holmes tensed around Watson’s fist, sucking him into his body with such fervor it nearly surprised the doctor. Holmes spent himself wildly, ribbons of come spurting across himself and Watson. Watson withdrew himself from Holmes and leaned back onto the bed beside him.

“Well that was, ah, intriguing.” Holmes whispered in a hushed tone, his voice gravelly and thick with release. 

“I concur absolutely. A brilliant experiment if I do say.” Watson’s lips spread into a smug smile and Sherlock kissed him madly in agreement. 

 

Drabble 4:

The ride from Baker Street to their meeting with Lestrade was taking far longer than anticipated. The streets were thick with late spring mud and the driver, though skilled, was finding it difficult to navigate the many throngs of people in the road that day preparing for evening celebrations of Queen Victoria’s birthday— the very event that drew the detective and his companion from their home. A plot was afoot, perhaps assassination perhaps something more sinister, and it was Sherlock Holmes on the case. 

But however urgent the dangers, however pressing the matter— the carriage ride was boring and Holmes found himself sinking into a doldrums of thought. An idea flickered into his genius brain and he moved across the carriage to seat himself beside Dr. John Watson.

“Holmes, may I ask why you have chosen to move to my side of the carriage?” Watson enunciated the words “my side” to emphasize his annoyance. 

“Ah just idling away the time, my friend.” He began to hum and slid his hand into Watson’s lap. “Just a trifle to pass away these dull moments of our journey.” And with that, he slipped a hand into Watson’s trousers, knowing full well how loosely the man liked to keep them buttoned.

“Sherlock…” Watson hissed Holmes’ name through gritted teeth.

“Watson I highly suggest keeping such tones to yourself.” He felt Watson spring to life in his hand.

“Holmes this is really improper ti—” Watson found himself utterly silenced as Holmes’ grip became more aggressive and fervent. He bit his lip to stifle a moan as the detective rubbed his thumb across the already slick head of his erection.

“The driver has a deafness of the left ear and his head cocked to the side listening to the road. The likelihood of his overhearing our efforts is most slim, my dear Watson.” Holmes’ voice was heavy with smug appreciation for his own intellect. “Unless of course you find yourself unable to control the volume of your vocalizations.” He stroked Watson as he spoke, rough calloused fingers gliding across the doctor’s prick. “You have precisely seventeen minutes in which to reach completion before we reach our destination and if I do say myself, it shan’t take that long.” 

“Holmes!” Watson cried out, unable to hold himself back, as Holmes continued to stroke him. He gripped Holmes’ arm tightly, nails digging into the fabric of the detective’s sleeve. He tried to steady himself but his breathing was ragged and erratic and his heart thumped in his chest in time to the singing of his blood. “I am going to get you back for this so help me I will.” He gritted his teeth harder and moaned once more, sinking back into the seat just a little.”

“If my surmising is correct, added stimulation to the perineum should result in satisfaction.” Holmes’ voice was clinical yet belied his amusement. He slid his hand down lower and pressed against the secret space behind Watson’s manhood and reached down to continue stroking with his free hand. Watson shuddered and came in thick ropes onto the floor of the carriage. Watson gasped and shook, his smooth appearance utterly disheveled. 

“I suggest cleaning that mess lest we become less than discreet.” Holmes wiped his hand on the seat of a carriage.

“I swear Holmes,” Watson said as he did as Holmes suggested, “I will have revenge for this.”

“I can only hope dear boy. I can only hope.”


End file.
